


Playing Doctors

by Justaway_Ninja



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Horror, Post-War, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27243745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justaway_Ninja/pseuds/Justaway_Ninja
Summary: (Horror) Knockout finds a human alone..."Say ahhhh..."Written as a gift for the Transform or Treat Halloween event 2020.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	Playing Doctors

**Author's Note:**

> This is for knockoutsapprentice on Tumblr! I hope you like it! 
> 
> Original prompt: 'Prime. Knockout. Horror. The good Decepticon doctor finds a human alone... (Based in concept on the scene where Knockout tries to squash Jack with a drill and says 'say ahhhh'.)' 
> 
> Huge thank yous to [PixeledPurple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixeledPurple/pseuds/PixeledPurple) for hosting the Transform or Treat event and for helping in the preliminary read-through, tackytacs for sending me many amazing horror story references that led to many sleepless nights, and finally [grayseeker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayseeker/pseuds/grayseeker), who helped brainstorm and gave me really excellent advice that really helped this story come to life. This wouldn't have happened without all your help!

You both see the red at the same time. 

Different reds, though. The robot’s red is rich. Vibrant. The crimson rings of its eyes – should you call them eyes? – glow like ember coals against the shadows of the trees, above a white, angled face and sharp mouth. Human-like, but not. 

Alien. That’s what they were. Alien. 

Your red is very much different. Thick and dark and clinging upon your pale arms, fostering viscous droplets that trail and glisten upon the nails of your fingers. 

Drip. Drip. Cold and sticky to the touch. You feel it crusting against your skin. 

Red on red. The air is thick. You inhale but breathe in only darkness. Empty. Lonely. 

The alien shifts. 

You turn and run. 

* * *

There’s a technique to this kind of game. The kind you played as a kid, darting on the tarmac, over painted lines and semicircles. 

It’s about shifting, twisting, flexing and bending. It’s about outstretched hands and screaming laughter. The wild wave of hair against a summer’s breeze. 

Tag. You’re ‘it’. 

You keep your head high and you keep running. 

\--

They did tell you not to get too close. 

When the aliens stepped up to the TV for the first time – made themselves public knowledge, in all their beauty and all their ugliness – ‘don’t get too close’. That’s what they said. 

“They’re not the same as us.” That’s what your mother had murmured, distant and frightened, when she’d finished listening to them speak. “They say they’re here to help, but we know nothing about them, and they’ve hurt us before.” She’d stared at their cold, metallic faces on the TV, her eyes reflecting the sharp angles of the screen. “We cannot trust them. That’s all there is to it. They talk like they’ve suffered, but they’re different from us.” 

“That’s precisely why I gotta find out more,” you’d answered. 

Your mother didn’t know you’d already come close enough. 

\--

Naturally, you already knew everything about the alien behind you. 

They weren’t entirely like the robots in the sci-fi movies, nor were they entirely like the aliens either. They weren’t devoid of emotion, and they always looked a little human-like, somehow. Two legs, two hands. That sort of thing. 

But they were never as they appeared. Transformers, the media called them, because they – duh – transformed. They masked themselves among human vehicles, keeping up their facades. They even had projectors, for holographic little humans, hidden behind neat little switches on panels. 

It was clever. All very clever. 

Aston Martin DBS V12. That’s the one behind you now. You hear the metallic tread of its footsteps behind you, splintering through the undergrowth. Not that it would be able to drive in this terrain, you know. It won’t catch you easily. 

And then you hear it. Behind you. You hear the slipping and grinding of mechanical gears. You chance a glance back. The robot’s hand shifts and twists. Flexing and bending. You can almost imagine the screeching of sparking saws against the metal. Pulling apart. Breaking. Contracting. Expanding. Their metal is cold, but during times like this you hear something raw and organic in their frames, like the pulsing of a bloody heart. 

In your mind, you hear the high, agonised whine of a whirling drill. 

In the darkness, the footsteps thud. 

* * *

You did your research outside of school. In the darkness of your room, under the lonely light of your computer, you put it back together. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. 

That’s when you found the databank. The memory files. Flashes of clues. Fighting. You saw glimpses of lasers. Fragments of a war. The deeper you delved, the more you noticed the patterns. A few familiar faces, again and again. Little Blue. Big Green. Even some humans. Kids probably around your age. 

You had to find out more. 

* * *

Somewhere against the slippery, mossy forest floor, you trip. 

And as you stumble on to your knees, you think about how much you deserved this moment. 

* * *

The technique of the game was to corner them. It was never any good to just run aimlessly out in the open, where they could go anywhere. In any direction. And your clasping hands would never reach them. 

Better to place in some obstacles. Better just to duck and weave. 

You don’t run out on the tarmac, but drive them instead on to the soft, slippery wood chips that blanket the bottom of the adventure playground. Around the climbing frame. Under the slide. Around the monkey bars. It slows them down. Forces them to stumble, skidding, shrieking, against the soft, shifting earth. 

Sometimes, you have to use the terrain to your advantage. 

You stretch out your hand. The wild wave of hair twines between your fingers, fluttering so gently in the breeze. 

Then little Mary-Jane screams, and you tug and you tug and she falls back hard. 

And you’re left there, still, with the faint strands around your fingers, wild and waving. 

You were really good at being ‘it’. 

* * *

“The Autobots want peace,” Little Blue had said on the TV, her voice quavering marginally. “We have defeated the Decepticons, even though we know we have hurt your planet in the process. But we don’t deserve this. Please, we just…” 

She’d looked upset then, her metallic face creasing with that same, organic feeling. Like the crinkle around the edges of a human’s eyes, just as they’re about to burst into tears. 

“… We’ve done our best to amend for your losses,” she’d continued, finally, “and we will continue to come to your aid, as you need it. We promised, at the beginning, that we _will_ atone for the sins of our kind, and the crimes against your planet. But,” here, she’d paused. Looked down. “... It’s not been easy. We’ve lost many of our own because of this blind hatred… Comrades. Friends. You Earthlings might call them… family.” 

“They’re not the same as us,” your mother murmured, so distantly. “They haven’t lost anything.”

As though hearing her, Little Blue turned to face the camera. And as she did so, her ringed gaze meets yours. For a moment, it is as though you are looking into each other. Little Blue’s next words come out, barely more than a whisper.

“Please,” she begged. “Don’t get too close. We need time to grieve.” And here, she’d broken. Just a little. Her mechanical gears shifting and heaving.

“Please,” she sobbed, “just leave us alone.”

* * *

You go to the forest on the weekends. 

It’s kinda far from where you live. At least an hour’s drive, there and back, if the traffic is good. But your car is new, even if it does need wearing in. And so you’d rattle your way to the edge of the trees, wrestling reluctant gears and stubborn engines all the way. 

But it’s worth it, because the forest is a cool place, and it’s where you have the best chance of meeting one of them. Perhaps that’s where their base is. The secret base only the government knows about. 

You’d found Cocky Stripes there, after all. 

Humming to yourself, you pat the now silent blue bonnet of your new car, and your own smile reflects back at you against the bold, yellow stripes. 

* * *

_“Why do you think they’re doing this?”_ asks Little Blue, her voice distorted within the recording. The image flickers, flashing black-and-white. Then colour seeps back across the screen. 

_“Well, you can’t expect them to welcome us with open arms,”_ answers the dismembered voice, gruff, yet patient. “ _Think about what Megatron did to Jasper. It’s going to take time.”_

But Little Blue scoffs, and glares into your eyes. _“I don’t think any time in the world is going to fix this,”_ she groans. And you think that she looks genuinely tired, her shoulders sagging and her frame weak. “ _I wish Optimus were here. He’d know what to do._ ” 

“ _We can wish all we want, but regardless, I’m sure it will work out,_ ” says the voice. It pauses, looks away, and back again. And then it’s a little softer. Kinder. “ _I’m sure we’ll find Bee and Smokescreen soon.”_

 _“I hope you’re right, Ratchet,_ ” mutters Little Blue, not sounding convinced. But then she smiles at you, and it seems as though they have reached an understanding. 

The video jerks then. The sounds warp and the screen fizzes. And suddenly, you are alone again. Alone in the abrupt darkness. 

Ah. It was corrupted. You step away, following trailing wires and fumbling blindly. When white light returns to your computer screen, you can see the broken remains of the head you had so carefully salvaged smoking and charring. 

The aliens used to call it ‘Ratchet’, but you prefer to think of it as your library. Your little archive of alien life. Amazing how much information such a small database could hold. ‘Ratchet’ had taught you almost a million years’ worth of history. 

The video jerks again as you attempt to restore it. The alien’s disconnected voice plays back, static-laced and garbled. “ _…’m sure we… find Bee a_ – zzrkh – _SmoOokescreE –_ bzzzk – _soon_.”

You look at the parts scattered on the floor of your room. Colourful, bright yellows and sombre, tinted black.

Well, they weren’t wrong, you think dryly to yourself. 

You had to find out more. 

* * *

You’d found the last kid quite easily. Smart one, for sure, behind his thick, rimmed glasses, but not as quick as you. Not quite smart enough. 

He’d babbled soon enough, once he stopped screaming. All about the EMPs, and magnetising ions, and the impact of crippling sonic waves. He’d blurted about internal chemistry and mechanical make-up. Energon. Some stuff you already knew, but others you didn’t. 

You took your notes with care. You couldn’t afford blowing up another one by accident, after all. Tweaking the traps was a slow process, and it would be a while until they’d get you what you wanted. 

But you’ll get there. Next time for sure. 

And if not, there were still four left. 

* * *

“Oh, just a civilian,” says the robot, stopping. 

It stares down at you, looking almost disappointed. You see the blaster on its arm twist. Sliding and slipping in a smooth, straight motion until it was no longer a blaster but a hand. You shiver at the sight. 

Gorgeous. So gorgeous. 

“You shouldn’t be here, you know,” the robot smirks, the soft mesh of its faceplates turning upwards. Its eyes are so red, small rings of fire, tantalising and dizzying. “The human agent promised us we won’t be disturbed here. I almost mistook you for an invader of some kind.” 

You say nothing, only tread backwards, softly and carefully. Out of the blast radius. 

“Hey now, don’t worry,” the robot raises its hands. “I know I used to be a Decepticon, but trust me. I’m one of the good guys now.” It sounds pleased, its eyes darting over your face for approval. “You humans may be a tough crowd to please, but that’s just because you guys haven’t really got to know _me_.” Here, it grins, and then stops. Looks at your arm. 

_Finally._

“Oh, you’re hurt,” it says. And finally it takes a step forward. “I’m a medic, and I suppose I should do _some_ good for Earthling-Autobot relations.” Another step. “Let me –” 

_Snap_. The switch clicks. And the resulting EMP blast is so powerful that even you shiver from the sight of it. 

The robot falls. Red paint flakes from your arm as you stretch it and wriggle your fingers. 

“Silly robot,” you say out loud, “I’m ‘it’, you know.”

* * *

It was your favourite thing about them. That soft malleability of their metals and frames. The changing of their forms. The disguises. How things were never as they seemed. Peekaboo. 

And not until now, would you really get the chance to see them for what they were. No longer charred and broken, shattered or immoveable, but mobile, alert, and so very, very much _alive_. 

And oh, how you’d planned, and plotted. How much you _deserved_ this moment. 

And now, finally, will you truly get to hear it. The beautiful groaning of bonnets pried apart. The soft tinkling clinks of a living engine dismantled. There will be the shift, and twist, from delicate gears; the flex and churning of intricate internals. You can almost hear the screeching of your saw upon their metal; you can almost see the blades gliding ragged along their shell. And _oh_ , how you will run your hands along the strange organic softness of their faces, feel the pulsing of wires, tugging of cables, and the cycling of their life fluids as warm as blood. 

Your drill whines, high and agonised, almost unheard against the robot’s screams. 

“Say ‘ahhhh’,” you coo. 

And then you plunge the tip in. 

* * *

The teachers always said, back then, that if you didn’t play nice, no one would play with you anymore. 

Games, after all, are meant to be fun. 

But in the end, they were wrong. The teachers knew nothing. 

Someone new was always up for another round. 


End file.
